


Someone You Might Have Been

by astolat



Series: Transformers works [11]
Category: Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Loss, M/M, Mirror Universe, Other, Shattered Glass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 08:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15703923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: I didn’t love him because he wasn’t you.





	Someone You Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on [Shattered Glass](https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Shattered_Glass_\(issue\)) (a good old-fashioned mirror universe story where the Decepticons are good and the Autobots are evil), and inspired by [these two awesome pieces of art by marwhal](https://astolat.tumblr.com/post/177011881128/marwhal-part2).

Optimus knew that he was almost out of time. The last dimension-shift had lasted for twenty-three milliseconds: long enough for his threat-alert system to come online, a flicker of _hostile territory, danger_. He’d consciously heard a snatch of audio, the familiar low harsh grating note of Megatron’s voice— _his_ Megatron’s voice—before he’d jolted away again.

Even before then, he’d known that the end was coming, even if he hadn’t experienced it viscerally yet. From what they’d worked out, the shifts had been coming from the beginning; he just hadn’t been able to perceive them during the long slow climb up from the subatomic time scale. But roughly two weeks ago, the shifts had finally reached the picosecond length: long enough to induce odd confused moments of disconnect where Optimus’s brain began to register a radical change in environment, but wasn’t quite able to bring it to conscious level. At first they’d thought he was suffering some kind of neural corruption from having been shoved between universes, but two brief surface-particle scans of his armor on either side of a single event had provided all the data necessary for Starscream and Soundwave to map out the ruthless mathematics of the universe—of _Optimus’s_ universe—reaching out to pull him back where he belonged.

“They believe the limit is roughly a single astrominute long,” Optimus had told Megatron, without looking up. He’d been sitting slumped on the side of the repair table, staring down at his hands. “Once the length of a shift crosses that threshold, your Optimus and I won’t—shift back again. We’ll be permanently returned to our original universes.” He’d paused, and then he’d said, harshly, his voice distorted in his own ears, “My people—they need me—”

And then—the strong, familiar black hands had closed over his, with that still utterly unfamiliar gentleness, and a Megatron who would not, after all, be his, said softly, “I know,” and reached one hand to tip Optimus’s head up, for his eyes to meet deep blue optics shadowed with grief beneath a black helm.

Optimus had thought—he’d tried his best not to let _thought_ become _hoped_ —that perhaps someone on the other side might feel differently about his return, might try to stop it. But the shifts had kept occurring. A few days ago, Starscream had finally proven that there _was_ no way to stop it. “The entire fabric of the space-time continuum is behind it,” he’d said, low and sorry, looking away from both of them. “Even if you could somehow generate the power to resist it—both universes would simply rupture and spill into one another. Everything in both of them would be destroyed.”

Now the remaining weeks had dwindled into days; soon that would become hours. Optimus tried not to think, tried to bury himself in the work—the work that had begun as his consolation when he’d first accepted that there was no way back to his own people, and now had to serve again for the reverse. The work he so desperately longed to keep doing: of rebuilding peace.

Even in this one month, Polyhex had been razed clear and the first new towers had been lifted. They’d gathered energon from a dozen old mines abandoned during the war. They’d begun to build a new world, a _future_ , straight out of every fevered dream that Optimus had indulged in the dark despairing hours of the night. Only even in those darkest hours, he’d never imagined looking across a massive work site and finding Megatron glancing back at him, optics brightening, mouth curving in a smile that would go tender in an instant, if only they were alone—

The world fuzzed out again, and Optimus was in a dark command center, oceanic depths glowing blue outside and the screens around him filled with the scrolling outlines of battle plans; Megatron, all in silver-white, was straightening and turning red glowing optics towards him. Then static rolled through his brain as his sensory processing went through another disjunction, and he was back at the construction site. The shift had lasted 511 milliseconds.

Optimus put down the stack of girders at the ready for the Constructicons and blindly turned and went inside the small shed they’d built to house the console with the construction plans, for reference; he shut the door and slid to the floor, his head in his hands. He stayed there in silence, and a few minutes later, Megatron came in through the door. Two months ago, after they’d first determined—as they thought—that there was no way of sending him back, Megatron had found him sitting alone like this, and had said to him gently, “I can’t tell you not to fear for your people. And I won’t tell you not to grieve. But maybe you can save them here, even if you can’t save them there.”

They _had_ brought the Autobots here around, even if they’d had to resort to fear as a tactic more than anything else. Together, he and Megatron had defeated Grimlock, which had cowed the rest. Optimus had found ways to reach most of them, after that, finding that their hearts were still there to awaken, even if buried deep beneath layers of rage. But when their former leader returned, with all _his_ rage intact…

Megatron didn’t say anything this time. He only sat down next to Optimus, and took his hand. Their fingers curled and intertwined. Optimus shut his optics tight. Everything had happened with shocking speed after all these years, all these millions of years fighting. He’d been so alone, the burden of leadership bending him double under its weight. Suddenly to have someone shouldering half the load, all Megatron’s strength _beside_ him, fitting into him like missing parts he’d been working around, clumsily, for his entire life. It had been a relief almost as astonishing as the moment when he’d looked up from their first hasty and yet perfect sketch for the initial layout of new streets, and Megatron had looked up also and smiled at him, brilliantly, and Optimus had trembled with the stuttering lurch of his emotional subsystem bringing raw, disused subroutines back online.

Megatron had stopped smiling, but his optics had flared, and he’d reached both hands towards Optimus’s face. Slowly, cautiously at first, tilting his head just a little—

Optimus cycled through an intake. He’d been radically unprepared for _happiness_ , and yet he’d already gotten used to it. He’d let himself believe that his own joy could last, even as he’d feared for his Autobots, for Earth and the humans, abandoned to Megatron and his own worst self. The _best_ scenario he could imagine was that his counterpart had challenged Megatron, and one or the other of them had died.

But Optimus now knew that hadn’t happened: that had been the command center at Decepticon headquarters on Earth. His counterpart was alive, and not a prisoner. His Megatron had found some way to use that Optimus, some way to control him—or perhaps the reverse—and they too were cooperating, in a terrible and perverse mirror image of the union Optimus had found himself. Which meant—he couldn’t even allow himself to _regret_. He had to _want_ to go back.

He didn’t say any of it aloud to Megatron. But he didn’t have to. Megatron reached up and drew Optimus gently against him, and Optimus trembled and with a squealing lurch turned and pressed his head down to Megatron’s shoulder, going back into the agonizingly temporary shelter of his arms.

#

The shifts grew longer rapidly. The next one was almost a full astrosecond, long enough for his systems to process the radical change in his environment as a real event instead of a sensory defect, leaving him whiplashed and dizzy and shaking as all his combat systems lurched into action and dropped out again instantly after. The disorientation was, in a way, his own fault: he should have just put himself manually on high alert, all the time. But he couldn’t bear to give up these last precious hours of peace.

He’d have to do it, closer to the end. When the final changeover came, he’d land in the middle of Decepticon headquarters, among enemies waiting for him, and the Autobots might not know enough about what was happening to even make an attempt to help him. His only hope was the unpredictability of the exact timing. He’d have to be ready to take advantage of the split second of surprise to fight his way out. And he’d have to hope…that his own counterpart wasn’t able to do the same.

He’d never know.

Two days later, the shifts had already gone past five seconds, and were coming more frequently. The process was accelerating: two universes scrabbling at his armor, trying to get a secure grip, disorienting. The one constant he had left was Megatron. His own, and the one who wasn’t. Megatron never left him, stayed by his side, filling every moment; and whenever Optimus flickered over, he was still there, almost overlapping.  

That morning, after the next jolting shift that made his eyes briefly go gleaming red, they stopped even a pretense of working. Megatron took Optimus by the hand and they went to the edge of the cleared ground at the work site. Starscream and two of his Seekers trailed after them, weapons and electro-harness kept in readiness, lingering just far enough away to give them some privacy. But they didn’t speak. They only stood with their shoulders together, in silence, until the world crackled away again, and there was silver armor out of the corner of Optimus’s optics and alert levels rising in a swift rush: his scanners picking out Soundwave and Thundercracker just a short distance away behind his back, weapons powered up.

Then Megatron said, the harsh voice grating, “I’ll trade his freedom for yours,” and Optimus turned his head. Megatron was standing beside him, staring right at him, jaw and fists clenched, his optics blazing. “Tell him if he takes you somewhere isolated for the final changes, I’ll do the same here.”

The shift lasted almost ten seconds: far too long, and not long enough to do more than stare at him in confusion. Then he was gone, and Optimus was looking at a face crumpled in sorrow instead, optics glowing blue as his own. Optimus said slowly, “He—he’s offering an exchange. If you’ll take me somewhere isolated, he’ll…but I can’t ask you to do that,” he added, interrupting himself. “I know what it will mean to your people if my counterpart escapes—”

“I made the same offer,” Megatron said, breaking in, his voice crackling with distortion. It made him sound—almost familiar.

They stole the next few hours, the most that they could count on, hiding from the others deep in another ruined building. They lay down there together, a nest of cables snaked between them and their hands interlaced, gripping tight, pleasure that was only one step over from pain flowing through Optimus in waves, Megatron’s joy and love as wonderful and terrible as his own, with the doors closing swiftly down between them.

And then there was only pain left. The time had all but run out. They disengaged and retracted their cables, closed up their armor. They left the building and went to the fuel depot; Shockwave was there, guarding it. He looked at Megatron and lowered his serene violet eye in sympathy before handing them the line. They both recharged to maximum.

Megatron led him away from the others, into the broken streets. They walked together for a long way, ghosts of shattered starscrapers rearing up sentinel around them under the stars. The stars that were the same, in both universes. Perhaps ten klicks from base there was one lingering tower only half broken, and Megatron flew him all the way up to the top where they could look out together over the blasted landscape. They didn’t look the other way, back at the warm candle-flicker glow of their base, at the fragile hope of peace they’d started to build.

The next shift lasted forty-seven seconds. The changeover in that direction was instantaneous, almost imperceptible now: between one instant and the next Optimus was under a starkly clear blue sky of late afternoon on Earth, the red dusty rock of a bare mesa beneath his feet and a long barren plain stretching uninhabited and empty into the distance. There was nowhere for attackers to hide. Megatron was at the edge of the cliff staring out, not looking at him, his shoulders rigid. His scanners must have picked up on the shift, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t speak. Optimus didn’t say anything either. The seconds ticked away, enough of them that he began to think with rising horror, _it’s already over, it’s already too late—_

And then he was jolting back, enough of a strain on his body going the other way that he felt the _process_ , his very molecules being translated through the barrier wall of a universe that didn’t want to let him go, and he fell gasping back onto the terrace, with Megatron turning back desperately to catch him.

They sank to the ground together. They pressed their foreheads together, and for a long while Megatron just held him, trembling a little. But the time was too precious to waste. “Tell me what your plans are,” Optimus whispered softly, and after a moment, Megatron began to talk, telling him which way they’d expand the reconstruction, the process of reclaiming the trash for materials, how he planned to reach out to the hiding civilians and begin to reconstruct society, how they’d build shuttles to get back to the moons—

But all the while, their chronometers were ticking inexorably away. They didn’t know when it would happen, but they knew the upper bound, and with half the time gone, Megatron’s voice failed, and he gripped Optimus’s helm and tilted him up and kissed him, kissed him over and over, in tears, lubricant trickling sweet over his lips, and Optimus shut his eyes and held on to him, held on to the moment as if he could stretch it into an infinity, held on so hard that he didn’t know when it ended: the final shift happened, and he didn’t know, because he was still in Megatron’s arms, still kissing and being kissed, clamped in an iron grip that never wanted to let him go and the taste of lubricant still bright in his mouth.

And then he did know; he knew, and—he didn’t let go. It was too unbearable to know. So for a moment longer, he let himself pretend, let himself imagine that Megatron had somehow translated over with him, or that there had been a mistake; that if he only held on a little longer, he’d switch back if only for one last time. He could do it; he could pretend, because if he’d really changed over, then Megatron would let go of him instead.

Megatron didn’t let go. His hand was gripping Optimus’s head, and he was still kissing him almost brutally, a refusal of his own. They both kept holding on, while the seconds ground away past forty, past fifty, past sixty, past seventy. The astrominute boundary came and went, and they both trembled in strange, shared agony.

But even then, they kept holding on: _it’s possible the boundary might be somewhat further out if our calculations are off,_ Starscream had said.

And then it had been more than a minute. Then more than two, and then more than five, and Optimus couldn’t pretend anymore. It was over. It was over, and Megatron was _gone_ ; so unimaginably distant he might as well never have existed at all. A distorted noise broke out of his mouth, muffled against Megatron’s lips. At once Megatron started to let go, and Optimus involuntarily clutched on to him in blind desperation: he still wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to be back in this broken universe, cracked down the middle and through his own heart; he wasn’t ready to let go. “No,” he whispered.

It wasn’t a request; it was a protest, a cry against something he couldn’t endure. But Megatron shuddered all over and said savagely, “What’s the _point?_ ” his own voice distorted as if—as if he couldn’t bear it either. As if he, too, felt the whole universe breaking around him. 

Optimus opened his eyes. Their foreheads were still together, and it was dark outside; night had come to Earth. In the narrow space between them, he couldn’t tell that Megatron’s helm was silver. His face was the same, his mouth a hard downturned line of agony, and his hands were as strong. He hadn’t let go.

“He wasn’t you,” Optimus said after a moment, barely audible. “But—he wasn’t someone else, either. I didn’t love him because he wasn’t you. I loved him because—he was. He was—someone you might have been. And so was—”

He stopped as Megatron’s hands flexed on him like an experiment, trying the idea of letting go. Optimus shut his optics again, unwilling to watch him pull away, and then Megatron snarled in his own desperation and dragged him closer instead, taking back his mouth. Optimus released a shuddering breath and leaned into it and put his arms around him.

“Someone you might have been,” Megatron said bitterly, even as his hand was moving on Optimus’s body, thumbing the access panel open. “But aren’t, and will never be. Do you think _I’m_ going to become him for you?”

The quick sureness of his movements, the confidence, was the same; the intensity of the power flow as he made the first connection between them, even the small grunted exhale. Optimus sighed deeply himself, a long slow breath through his entire ventilation system, and Megatron shuddered.

Optimus reached slowly up and touched his face, brushed lightly against his lips, the polymetal warm and charged beneath his touch. “Not him,” he whispered softly. “Not him, but—someone that I could love. If I—become the same for you.”

Megatron was silent for a moment, the cutting edge of his sarcasm put away, and he jerked his head once in a nod, sharp and brief, accepting. Then he caught Optimus’s mouth again in a hard, aggressive kiss, halfway between tenderness and violence; this much unfamiliar, and yet full of the same sparking heat. Optimus lay down with him, again, for the first time; fitting the first few pieces back together.

# End

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to monicawoe for beta! If you like, [reblog!](https://astolat.tumblr.com/post/177063915623/someone-you-might-have-been-3102-words-by)


End file.
